


Aay'han

by TwinEnigma



Series: Jason the Jedi AU [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dreams and Nightmares, Force Sensitive Jason Todd, Force Visions, Gen, Mandalorian, Mando'a, Prophetic Dreams, Sheila didn't sign up for this, That's Not How The Force Works, The Force is TRYING okay, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11693172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinEnigma/pseuds/TwinEnigma
Summary: Sheila Haywood is a practical person. She has no time or patience for matters of the Force.Those are Jetii things and she is no Jetii.The child she had - ah, that is another matter entirely.





	1. Haa'it

_Year 959 Post-Reformation_

 

_Andui, Planet Takodana_

 

Sheila was once a proud Mandalorian, she was. She lived and breathed the Resol’nare. Honor was once her bedfellow and pride her constant companion. How she had relished the idea that one day she would raise her child in the ways of a Mando’ad! How she had thought it a grand, distant dream and then, one day, unexpectedly, it was a distant dream no longer.

The how, of course, was an academic matter, as one did not simply just get pregnant on their own. The who – that was, admittedly, a little bit more nebulous. Not that it particularly mattered, as she was a Haywood of Mandalore and nowhere in the Resol’nare did it state that having a partner was a requirement to be a parent. You are or you are not, there is no in between. In this, as all things, her people are a most practical people.

In the beginning, she had been so excited. She had been so _proud_.

And then the dreams came and with them, the horrifying, shameful knowledge that the child she is carrying is no true Mandalorian – he is a _Jetii_.

Or, possibly, something _far_ worse: _dar’jetii._

A vision swims behind her eyelids and her stomach churns, phantom contractions racing through her.

“Don’t show me this,” she murmurs. “Don’t show me this.”

But he, lost in his dreams, doesn’t listen to her and she is suddenly standing in his boots once again, in a muddy wasteland on a planet she feels like she should recognize but does not for all the ruin it has endured. She has been here so many times now and it does not change. She simply pays more attention to the details, hoping to spot a clue that may explain what he shows her or why he is drawn to this repeating nightmare.

“Vod,” says a chorus of identical voices, coming from men with the same face, the same helmet, spiraling off into the distance and filling it with their presence. They are of Mandalore, that much is obvious, but the how and why of them remains a terrifying mystery, even after months of this torment. That their shadowed faces are almost familiar is that much more alarming. If the light shifts just a little bit more, maybe she can see whose face they wear and, yet, the shadows stubbornly cling to them.

“Ner vod,” he says, through her mouth, and there is a snapping hiss as he raises his hand, her hand, and the lightsaber shines bright, blinding and indistinct in color. “OYA!”

He leads them, he _leads_ these Mandalorians into a battle, but the Jetiise are not generals, they are not warriors, not like this - _not like this_ , she knows this.

And yet, this is what he shows her, again and again.

“Why do you do this?” she asks, desperately, and hates the silent, dreaming terror that grows within her all the more. This is _not_ what she’d wanted when she’d thought of having children and, not for the first or last time, she curses Hod Ha’ran for her fickle fortune.

The vision pitches and shifts, a shadow falling from somewhere behind them. It races over everything, bathing them in frigid cold. Somewhere, someone screams as blaster fire erupts around them, and there is a great bellowing roar. In the distance, she can see a great building with five spires burning. The ground is covered in blood and bodies – _Jetiise_ bodies.

“No!” tumbles forth from his lips, from her mouth, into her voice and she is awake, reeling on her feet as she tries to find purchase in reality.

Shaking, Sheila stands. “Who are you? What in haran will you become?” she asks him and clutches at the fluttering life within her belly.

 _I am a Jedi_.

That isn’t his voice. It’s someone else’s. She knows his voice from the dreams and this is not his.

And yet… it comes _from_ him. It wraps around him, seeping into her through him, and she can hear the echoes of whispers coming with it.

Sheila clamps her hands over her ears and sinks down onto the floor. “K’uur! Damn it, _stop_!”

A sudden heavy rustling of cloth catches her attention and she jerks her head up, instinctively drawing her holdout blaster. In the shadows of the doorway, there is a tall figure in black, with armor that seems to absorb the light and a masked helmet that looks like a skull. In one hand, he holds the weapon of a Jetii, but the blade is a bloody red.

She blinks and he is gone.

“Copaani gaan?” asks the man standing in his place.

He steps into the light and she recognizes him – how could she not? He was once a True Mandalorian to the bone and loyal to the Resol’nare. He’s changed – leaner, a sallow cast to his skin that speaks of recent illness, and the shadows of loss in his eyes – but, ah, to see him back in his beskar’gam once more! Truly, he is the favorite of fate!

“So, you’re still alive, Fett,” Sheila states, forcing a grin. “I thought they named you dar’manda.”

Jango Fett rolls his shoulders in an easy, dismissive shrug. “They _tried_ ,” he pauses, narrowing his eyes at her. “You don’t look so good, Haywood.”

Sheila draws back her lips, baring her teeth with a hiss. “I’m well enough to kick your shebs clear to Coruscant, you besom di’kut.”

“Sure you will,” he drawls, offering a hand. “Screaming and carrying on like that – the haran is going on? Your ad coming or something?”

Sheila gives him a waspish look as she takes his hand with her free one and uses it to pull herself to her feet.

_Ner vod._

Abruptly, she yanks her hand away and takes a step back, eyes wide at the sudden words rippling through her. She looks down at her belly in horror and her whole body shakes with realization.

 _The child she carries calls him vod._ Why would he? What connects them?

“What the – Haywood? Udesii!” Jango manages, bewildered.  He looks at her like he might look at a spooked bantha, his eyes flicking to the holdout blaster she still has in her hand.

Sheila looks at it, too, her thoughts a scattered, desperate mess as she attempts to wrap her head around the potential implications of what she’s heard. “What have you done?” she manages. She doesn’t know who she’s asking, really, not anymore, and it is so tempting to just _shoot_ something or some _one_ – anyone, really, and Jango’s honestly looking more and more like an acceptable target.

He will take this child from her, Hod Ha’ran take the shabuir. She does not know how she knows this, but she does, and that alone is something worth shooting him over.

Jango takes advantage of her distraction and lunges for the blaster. They grapple for it – she gets in a good elbow to his face and he manages to break at least one of her fingers.

That is when her water breaks.

The two of them stare at each other, eyes wide.

Har’chaak, those _hadn’t_ been phantom contractions after all. “Truce?” she offers.

“ _Kark_ , no,” Jango spits out, his lip busted from where she’d elbowed him. “I know you, Haywood. You’ll shoot me.”

“Probably,” she agrees, “But I have another battle to fight.”

The next words don’t come easy, halting on her tongue. She is afraid, afraid of the child she carries and the future he dreams, afraid of what he might become. This is nothing like what she’d wanted and, yet, she cannot go any way but forward. What choice is there now?

But Jango seems to know what she intends to say. “I’ll watch your back for you.”

She nods, solemnly, and that’s the end of the matter.

Their people have always been practical, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, OKAY, so I had this great plan to spend my recovery from surgery doing a few updates. Instead, I spent it being in a world of pain and distracted because of it, which led me to working on completely different parts of stories, out of order of their intended update schedule, and doing more polishing on overall outlines of their respective plots than anything else.
> 
> This actually sprung from that and the question of "What happened to Jason's mom/is the Sheila bit still canon for this AU?" and I had this great and wild idea that Sheila was Mandalorian, since their relationship with the Jedi is pretty antagonistic. It also allowed me to work in a bit more weight for some stuff I've planned down the line with Rise (And Try Not to Fall) regarding her, Catherine Todd, Jason and Talia, as well as Jason's relationship with the clones of the GAR.
> 
> It also establishes that Jason's Force Visions have been going on since before he was born and that he'd unwittingly horrifically traumatized her because honestly you can't expect a fetus to know how to shield the Force in-utero and the Force is just literally throwing out warnings that Order 66 is coming. Not that anyone realizes that's what it's trying to tell them about, but you know...
> 
> And then Jango Fett decided to show up. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Why not, right? He's fresh off of getting his revenge against Tor Vizsla for Galidraan and still recovering from being poisoned around this time, if we're going by the Legends materials.
> 
> ANYWAY, I abuse Mando'a fairly liberally here and most of it is pretty straightforward - ad meaning child, vod meaning brother, Jetii meaning Jedi (singular, with Jetiise as plural). Others, like "copaani gaan" (need a hand?), are a little more nuanced. Sheila also makes mention of an old Mandalorian god - Hod Ha'ran, a trickster deity who represents the fickle nature of fortune.
> 
> Also, Jason shares his birth year with someone important.


	2. Ijaa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sheila is really a MESS.

                “Do you have somewhere you can go?” Jango asks her, later.

                Sheila curses under her breath and directs him to bring her to her ship. Once there, she has him set a hyperspace course for the Dici System and retreats to the fresher to gather herself and set her fingers.

                This is not as she wanted things to go.  As grateful as she is for him watching her back – and this is a debt she _will_ repay, she promises that -, there is a part of her that recalls that strange impression that he would someday, somehow take this child and it leaves her increasingly uneasy in his presence where she might not once have been.

                And yet, in her present state, she cannot refuse his help. Recovery will be a slow thing, Sheila knows this, and the knowledge of it pricks at her.

                Idly, she wonders if it would not be such a bad thing to let him have the child. Jango Fett may be many things, but he is not without honor and it is clear that he has a fondness for this child that she does not share. There are times during the journey she cannot bring herself to look at the child and she can see his disappointment in her clearly.

                He does not know, not as she does, what this child is, what visions he has tormented her with these past months. Would he, she wonders, be so fond of the child if he did?

                She can hear the child crying in the main cabin and she is sure that she can feel her blaster rattling in its holster. Again, she curses under her breath, wondering what it is that she’d done to deserve this.

                Hod Ha’ran is having a laugh at her expense, at least that much is certain.

                What she needs is time to think and recover – somewhere safe, somewhere she can make a plan. She _needs_ a plan.

                “You are Mando’ad,” she tells herself, staring into the small mirror. She looks like hell, waxen and ill from pain and blood loss. She closes her eyes and leans against the wall of the fresher. She has had worse. “Gar serim.”

                The com crackles – karking piece of bantha poodoo needs replacing and she’s never gotten around to it – and Jango’s voice filters through, “We’re coming up on realspace reversion. Gonna tell me where we’re going, Haywood?”

                Sheila grimaces, leaning hard against the wall as another wave of pain hits, and promises that she will ditch him the first chance she gets – it won’t be hard, this far out. “Gotham,” she spits out, clenching her hands into fists. “I know a place I can crash for a few days.”

                There’s an answering grunt.

                Rolling her eyes and biting back the pain, she exits the fresher and returns to the main cabin.

                “Mar’e,” Jango grumbles from the pilot’s seat, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye as she picks up the crying infant. “Kid’s got good lungs.”

                Sheila glares at him. “K’atini - you’d think you’d never heard a baby before.”

                For a moment, he looks like he’s about to say something and then he screws up his face, deliberately returning his full attention to the controls.

                It’s a wise decision. She’s in no mood.

                As if he too senses it, the child quiets in her arms. He probably _can_ , she thinks, and the thought doesn’t sit well at all. It is fundamentally terrifying.

                Thankfully, Gotham’s Orbitsec lights up their comms and she can focus on getting them planetside without being shot at. Sure, Gotham’s a kriffing dar’yaim pit, but it’s one she knows pretty well. There are even plenty of opportunities to lose her tag-along. If she has to, she can ditch him _and_ the ship: she’ll miss the rustbucket, of course, but as long as she has her beskar’gam, the loss will be negligible.

                Sheila directs Jango to touch down in one of the Mid-level ports, close to one of the large inter-level hubs. It’s not too far from where she wants to go, but very busy and far enough that he will have trouble tracking her in the crowds.

                “I will return,” she tells him, slinging the bag with all she cares about over her shoulder. In the other hand, she still carries the child. She doesn’t know if she means it or not.

                It doesn’t matter.

                Sheila has a plan. She makes her way out of the port, ignoring her pain as she makes her way towards the hub. In her arms, the child whimpers softly, as if somehow in discomfort the further they get away from the port.

                Haar’chak, had the shabuir already taken the child from her?

                Sheila curses and plows on, storming her way down into the hub and catching the first lift down to the Lower Levels. She tries not to glare at the child, but she is angry: fate has cursed her with this… _dar’manda_ , not the child she so desired. It is hard not to be resentful.

                The rest of the walk is a blur, but her feet know the way, and it isn’t long before she is buzzing the door of an apartment with a peeling Aurebesh label, declaring it the residence of “Todd.”

                Her sister, Catherine, opens the door and that is when her feet give out from under her. The curse her sister lets out is hardly kind – but it’s accurate, she supposes – and Sheila lets herself sag into her arms.

                “Oh, Sheila,” Catherine says, shaking her head as she helps her inside and deposits her on a couch.

                Sheila sinks into the cushions, as if all the exhaustion has finally caught up with her, and hardly feels her sister take the child from her hands, save for a measure of quiet relief. Her eyes flutter, heavy, and then she drifts off.

                For the first time in months, she does not dream – only, when she wakes, it _feels_ like a dream. Things are clearer than they’ve ever been, in a way that normally only comes in dreams, and it is strangely quiet in her head and heart.

                Her sister sits, rocking the child in her arms, a happy smile on her face as she tickles his belly. After a moment, she raises her head, noticing that she is awake. “He’s cute. What’s his name?”

                Sheila shrugs.

                Catherine rolls her eyes. “…So, what’s his father call him?”

                “Doesn’t have one,” Sheila tells her.

                Save perhaps Hod Ha’ran himself, she thinks mulishly and stands, stretching.

                Catherine gives her an odd look, her finger caught in the child’s grasping hands. “I don’t understand. Why haven’t you…?”

                “He is dar’manda,” Sheila states before she can stop herself, “Not my child.”

                Catherine freezes in place, her expression one of abject shock and horror, and the child lets out a wail. It is the cry that breaks her stillness and Catherine’s face darkens in fury: “Have you lost your karking mind, Sheila? Gar _ad_!”

                 Maybe she had, Sheila supposes wildly, or perhaps she is merely thinking clearly for the first time in months. She laughs a little. “That dar’manda baby jetii is _ad be Hod Ha’ran_. Not mine.”

                The string of insults that comes out of her sister’s mouth are some of the lowest of the low and, had Sheila not known her sister hadn’t the _slightest_ kriffing clue what she’s been through, she’d have hauled off and punched her for the affront.

                “Hut’uun! This is your blood!” Catherine spat, before turning her attention to the crying child, her expression softening. “It’s all right, ad’ika, it’s all right.”

                “You don’t understand,” Sheila tells her, point blank. “You don’t know _what_ he is – what he’s _capable_ of.”

                “I don’t _have to_!” Catherine roars, scooping him into her arms and holding him close. “He is a _child_. A _Haywood_.”

                Sheila snarls, spitting to the side. “He is no Haywood. He is not even Manda.”

                Catherine’s eyes flash with her anger, fire bright, and she bares her teeth, “Usenye.”

                “Fine,” Sheila says, shouldering her bag. She reaches for the child. “I’ll take him to Planetary Security.”

                Or Jango, whom she’s sure would be happy to have him.

                Either way, she’s made up her mind.

                “You will _not_ ,” Catherine draws back, curling the child protectively to her chest. “He is family.”

                Anger flares in her gut. Sheila hisses, “You do not have the right. Marrying an aruetii like you did, you’re lucky I came to you at all!”

                Catherine inhales, her face red with fury, and punches her – _hard_.

                Sheila staggers, sinking to one knee, and glares back at her sister.

                Catherine stands over her, child clutched to her, eyes blazing, and plants her feet, as sure as if she still wore her beskar’gam. Her eyes flick down to the child. “I name you Jason. _Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad._ ”

                “Idiot,” Sheila hisses, getting to her feet.

                “Better an idiot than a coward,” she fires back. “Now, leave.”

                Sheila scowls and once again picks up her bag. She heads to the door and pauses, looking back over her shoulder. “Fine. Take him. Do not come crying to me when you realize you’re in over your head.”

                Catherine flicks her wrist downwards, dropping a blade into her hand, and throws it at her, deliberately going wide by a finger’s width.

                It is as good a hint as any.

                Sheila leaves, making her way back to the Mid-levels in a storm of silent rage. She fumes all the way into the port, shoving past a bewildered Jango.

                “Where is gar ad?” he asks, wide-eyed.

                “I am dar’buir,” she snarls and he pales.

                She is furious and she does not know why.

                That child had tortured her for months with visions and nightmares. He might very well grow up to become something of nightmares. But, as long as that child is with her sister and her aruetii husband on Gotham, somewhere where the Jetii will _never_ come, those awful things he showed her will never come to pass. He is now _their_ problem, so what should she care?

                With a cry, she throws the last remaining holo of her family from _before_ everything went wrong against the wall of the cabin, smashing it. Her parents are gone in a flash of sparks. Her sister’s image lingers for a moment, sputtering and flickering, and then fades.

                Sheila sinks to the floor and sobs.

                Jango doesn’t return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, OK, SHEILA. :/
> 
> This is 100% saltier and darker than I'd originally planned. So yeah, enter Catherine Todd (ne Haywood, formerly of Mandalore) and exit Jango Fett.
> 
> Catherine really doesn't know what she's gotten herself into with adopting her nephew - but at least she named him and is willing to try - and poor Jango probably thinks Sheila went and abandoned her kid somewhere on Gotham (or worse). For both of them, this is about honor, hence the title of the chapter.
> 
> Also, yes, Sheila does basically tell her sister that Hod Ha'ran is Jason's father.
> 
> Mando'a used in this chapter:  
> Mando'ad - child of Mandalore; Mandalorian  
> Gar serim - That's it/yes, you're right  
> Mar'e - At last! (said in relief)  
> K'atini - suck it up  
> dar'yaim - a hell, a place you want to forget (a good description of planet Gotham, actually)  
> dar'manda - not Mandalorian in the sense of identity or soul; someone who has lost their Mandalorian heritage and identity and in doing so lost their soul; soulless (and Sheila absolutely intends it as the first and last definitions)  
> Gar ad - Your child  
> "ad be Hod Ha'ran" - child of Hod Ha'ran  
> Hut'uun - coward  
> Usenye - leave (obscene); basically, "get [the f***] out"  
> aruetii - outsider, a non-Mandalorian  
> Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad - "I know your name as my child"; Mandalorian vow of adoption  
> dar'buir - not a parent; no longer a parent.


	3. Haat

                _“Sheila, this is your sister. I’m – I don’t know how to say this, but… did you ever notice anything odd about-“_

_*click*_

                _“Hey, Sheila, it’s me again. I’m not sure if you realized, but Jason… there are these strange things… and I think he’s… kriffing haran, vod, was his father a **Jetii**?”_

_*click*_

_“It’s me, Sheila. I’m - I’m… sorry about what I said. You were **right**.”_

_*click*_

_“I don’t know if I can do this. Sheila, please.”_

_*click*_

                _“Sheila, I - I could really use your help.”_

_*click*_

                _“Willis is dead, Sheila. I need you. I can’t do this alone. Please come, sister.”_

* * *

 

 

_Year 968 Post-Reformation_

_Gotham, Dici System_

 

                It has been nearly ten years.

                In all that time, not _once_ has Sheila looked back. Not once has she deigned to listen to her sister’s comms – and there had been many. First, they had come at a frantic pace and then fewer, then fewer still, until at last they stopped coming at all. She had assumed her sister had finally figured out that she wasn’t going to respond and stopped trying.

                Now, Sheila is not so sure.

                From her position across the street, she can see that the transparisteel windows of her sister’s apartment are dark and cloudy with dust. There has been no activity there at all, none that would suggest anyone resides there currently.

                It is troubling, to say the least.

                Perhaps, she supposes, her sister might have moved on. It is certainly possible. And yet, in the depths of her soul, she has a feeling that this is not the case. Something doesn’t feel right. Her sister, for all her faults, would not have left without leaving her some means of finding her: Catherine believed in family more than anyone and she, no doubt, still clung to the hope that Sheila would come around eventually.

                She didn’t understand, but who did? Who could in this galaxy?

                Sheila flicks the sensor on her helmet back to its upright position and makes her way across the street. This deep into the Low Levels, there are few people on the street and none that are willing to cross a Mandalorian in full beskar’gam. They hurry past her in fearful silence, no doubt assuming she is here to collect on a bounty.

                She ignores them, entering the building on silent feet, and makes her way up the duracrete stairs.

                The name on the door is nearly gone now, faded to little more than barely recognizable Aurebesh and choked thick with dust, but it is the same. The door itself is ajar, stained with rust, and, idly, she notices the tattered remains of what were once flimsiplast warning ribbons, the kind that Planetary Security uses when something, usually a death, has happened.

                A terrible suspicion gnaws at her, deep in her gut, but she pushes it aside and opens the door fully, entering.

                The apartment itself is empty, in the way that abandoned things are empty. Anything of any real value is, no doubt, long gone. Furniture, broken and slowly rotting, remains. The garbage and rags that pervade Gotham’s Lower Levels are present in the corners, but they too seem forgotten and left to gather dust. Of her sister and her son, there are no sign.

                No one has been here in years.

                Beneath her helmet, Sheila swallows hard. _When_ had her sister last attempted to comm her? How many years ago?

                She feels her gut twist in guilt. She should have come long before now and, yet, her pride did not let her.

                “Who are you?” a growl, low and deep cuts through the room. “What are you doing here?”

                Sheila turns, raising a blaster automatically and biting out a deep curse under her breath, grateful that the helmet hides her surprise.

                There, near the window, in the shadows: a pair of humanoid figures, one tall and the other – a child, perhaps? She cannot be certain, but she _suspects_.

                She pauses and raises her arm to aim at the ceiling, deliberately disengaging. “What happened to the woman who lived here?” she asks, looking away.

                There are stains on the floor. One is an unsettling rusty color.

                “She died,” the low voice grounds out.

                The words sting, a confirmation of her worst fears.

                “And the child?” she asks, after a moment. “She had a son.”

                It is the smaller of the two – a teen, maybe - who answers this time: “He went to Coruscant, to become a Jedi.”

                Sheila clenches her hands at her sides, a wave of sudden fury washing through her, and she clenches her teeth, grinding down on the urge to scream. “When?” she demands.

                “Four years ago,” the teen says.

                She refuses to believe it. Her sister had left behind many things when she married that aruetii, but she would not have betrayed their heritage, not like this. Her sister would not have allowed it, not while she still drew breath. Not unless…

                The realization sits in the back of her mind, unwelcome and horrible in its totality.

                “Who are you to them?” the low growling voice calls out, breaking the silence.

                Sheila stares at the taller of the two.  His face is masked in shadow, but she can feel his gaze on her, as if being suffocated by it. His presence alone is dwarfing in its enormity. She thinks, then, of the rumors she has heard about Gotham, about a dark figure that haunts their world, and wonders if perhaps there is not some weight to those spacer tales after all.

                Then, for a moment, she recalls the distant image of another figure in black, this one with a mask like a skull and a red jetii’kad, and suddenly this shadow is no longer so overwhelming. She can breathe easily once more.

                Jetii tricks, she realizes and frowns under her helmet. Har’chaak.

                As if aware of her recognition, the tall figure shifts back, deeper into the shadows. “Who are you to _him_?”

                The coward, she thinks, and glares silently at him for a moment before, finally, she deliberately turns away. “It is of no importance.”

                “Liar,” the teen says, loud and accusing.

                When she turns, blasters raised, they are gone and it is as if they had never been there at all. And yet, she can feel their eyes on her still, watching from somewhere close, somewhere hidden.

                It is no matter. Let them watch. She is leaving anyway.

                There is nothing left on Gotham for her anymore.

                Once back on her ship and back into hyperspace, Sheila pauses, picking up a datachip she has not looked at in years. It sits in the palm of her hand, silent and heavy for all that it is made of nothing different than any other datachip in the whole galaxy.

                On this chip are all the comm calls her sister had made to her, all those she had ignored in her anger and, later, in her pride. It is the only thing left of her now.

                True, her son lives and she could easily seek him out, if she willed it, but she will not. The Jetii have him now and Sheila is a practical person, from a practical people. She knows what a Jetii is, what that means.

                There is nothing that can be done for it. Her sister’s son may yet live, but he is lost to her people forever now.

                He is a Jetii.

                Jetii have no family, no people, no place in the _manda_. He might as well never have existed.

                The datachip sets into the port with a soft click and she scrolls back, all the way to the oldest file on it, before selecting it and letting it play back.

                _“Hey, Sheila, it’s Catherine.”_

                “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Catherine,” she says, softly. “I left you with a heavy burden that was not yours to bear. For that, I am sorry.”

                She drifts off, listening to the sound of her sister’s voice and grieving quietly.

                She dreams, and in her dreams, she sees a tall handsome teen, one not yet fully a man, with green eyes and dark hair, who holds out his hand to her. He is familiar somehow, but she cannot place the face.

                _“Ret’urcye mhi,”_ he says and smiles sadly, as fire crashes towards them. _“Vor’e, buir.”_

                She will not remember these dreams.

                She never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THERE'S THE END TO THIS DEPRESSING FIC, in which Sheila is a MessTM, Catherine didn't deserve this, Jango-I-was-a-cameo-but-surprisingly-important appears, Jason got the short end of several sticks, and hey there's Bruce and Dick, _finally._ Also, the fic in which Jason's bio dad is... left to be a mystery. xD
> 
> Have some foreshadowing, too. ; D
> 
> Fun fact: Year 968 aka 32 BBY, THINGS ARE ABOUT TO GO DOWWWWWWWWN ON NABOO.
> 
> Mandoa used:
> 
> jetii'kad - jedi sword; lightsaber  
> "manda" - basically, a collective state of being for all Mandalorian souls after death.  
> “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum" - "I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal" - daily prayer of remembrance for the dead, typically followed by the names of those to be remembered.  
> Ret'urcye mhi - Maybe we'll meet again, literally, but also means goodbye  
> Vor'e - thanks


End file.
